idle thoughts
by that random stranger
Summary: It's oddly liberating, the Pyro thinks, when he slides his mask off from his face and he's finally able to gasp at a lungful of 100%, pure air—the kind that doesn't need to pass through the filters of his gas mask. ( or the one where the Pyro muses. )


Note: This is unbeta'd, so please excuse any grammar or spelling mistakes.

Team Fortress 2 (c) Valve

Idle Thoughts

_(Do you believe in magic?)_

It's oddly liberating, the Pyro thinks, when he slides his mask off from his face and he's finally able to gasp at a lungful of 100%, pure air—the kind that doesn't need to pass through the filters of his gas mask. He exhales slowly and carefully examines his room. Taking the gas mask off was like a small anchor towards a different world, something more akin to stability, but he can still see hints of brightly coloured things and a child's wonderland in the corner of is eye. He could still even hear the sweet voices and shrieking giggles echoing in his ears. It feels a little..._mocking_. Yet he tries to pay no mind. He sighs. A moment passes and then he moves again. He reaches over and tugs at the hairnet on his head, letting his red curls tumble out in disarray. He never bothers to take much care of it, but he has yet to take some scissors and get a haircut. He moves onto his gloves, pulls one of them off and flexes his fingers with gradualness. Stares at the pale skin—marred by scars from a long ago incident. He continues on, peels his other glove and then moves onto unzipping his suit. With every slide of it reveals more expanse of milky flesh, white as the dolls carved in ivory yet scarred and twisted—imperfect. He has accepted this fact long ago. It feels nice, he absently thinks, to feel the air without the stickiness of sweat or the slide of rubber on his flesh. A slight shiver passes through him as the cool breeze brushes by his open window. He turns and steps out of his suit, neatly hangs it. He pauses and spares a glance at the mirror propped up against a couple of books. He sees a pallid face staring back. A ghost, he muses, as he spins on his heel and puts on a shirt and clean shorts from atop his dresser. It's like he's never seen the light of day, but that's only because he's trapped in his flame retardant suit for the duration of the day. He clambers off outside his window and on top of the roof. There was a reason why he picked this room and it was because it had the easy access to the rooftop. He cranes his neck up and eyes the vast expanse of sky and land before him. There's a something beautiful in knowing that the stars dotting the night sky were large balls of flame just roaring and _burning_. A small smile touches his lips. Someday, he might be able to touch one and just _feel_ it licking at the tips of his fingers.

From a distance, he spots the BLU's headquarters glowing rather brightly with its fluorescent lights. He pulls out a lighter from his pocket and flips the lid open. He wonders if the others from across the way would be able to see the tiny, flickering light. Perhaps. Perhaps not. It makes him think of the Pyro on the other team. Were they the same? Did they _think_ the same things? _Do_ the same things even? He chuckles a little at that one. He knows for sure that they both love the flames. Worship the fire that provides, creates, but also destroys. Maybe they would get along well if they had that one thing in common. He shrugs, mostly to himself. Perhaps they were both just different entities entirely despite their similar occupation. He remains quiet for a while then and revels in his solitude, in the calmness of everything before the morning comes and the sounds of gunfire and screams of death disrupt the peace.

And then, he begins to speak softly. Not to himself, but to an apparition only he sees. His voice is slightly raspy but clear, unmuffled, unlike when he wears the rubbery mask. To a passing stranger, it might seem bizarre but to the Pyro's eyes. He's speaking with a familiar friend—one who's stuck with him for, well, forever. He mostly recounts the day, but in a way where he tries to remember it without the gas mask. Everything is different behind it and always, _always_, he feels like something else entirely.

Detached.

Inhuman.

_Monster_.

No. He shakes his head. Ignore those thoughts. He keeps on talking to distract himself. Every detail he recalls from memory with his hands occasionally gesticulating for emphasis. He remembers the day like it was a silent film: talking to the Scout. Listening to the Soldier lecture (more like yell at) his team. Watching for Spies. Seeing the Demoman taunt the rival group. Compressing the flames away from the Heavy. Guarding the Engineer's nest. Getting healed by the Medic. Getting doused out by the Sniper's pi-"Jarate". Observing the Spy sap sentries. So on and so forth. It varies, everyday, and honestly, it doesn't get _that _boring in the base. He talks it out until the first rays of dawn crawl out and stain the skies with a pinkish hue.

When he finishes, he says his farewells and climbs back into his room before anyone could see him. He slides under the covers and gets comfortable. Sleep comes easier to him at dawn. Maybe he's nocturnal. Maybe his biological clock's just really screwed up. Maybe.

Maybe he could be other things. Maybe, perhaps, he could be many things.

In another time.

In another place.

I could be free.

_(Yes, I do believe.)_


End file.
